


Guinea Pig Coffin

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk





	Guinea Pig Coffin

###  Guinea Pig Coffin

Guinea Pig Coffin

  


  


Warning: guinea pig death fic.

  


  


  


  


  


“Starsky…?”  
  
Hutch stopped just inside his door, still holding the bag of groceries, and stared. Starsky sat on the couch, looking really miserable. He wore a truly disreputable pair of jeans, cut off at the knees, and one of Hutch’s flannel shirts, the green one. He held his knees pulled towards his chest, and his feet were bare.   
  
“What’s the matter?” Hutch put down the bag and headed towards Starsky. He sat beside him on the couch and put a hand on his arm. “What happened?”  
  
Starsky’s breath hitched. “L-Louise, Hutch. She—wasn’t breathin’ this morning. I tried to give her a carrot, and…” He swallowed, hard, and stared at the floor with pooling eyes. “She’s dead, Hutch.”  
  
Hutch bit back a sigh of relief. That was all? A dead guinea pig was hardly the worst thing he could’ve imagined at the moment. Then he felt guilty; Starsky had loved that little creature.   
  
“I’m sorry, Starsk.” He rubbed a circle on Starsky’s back, then gave Starsky a pat on the knee. “You want to have a funeral for her?”  
Starsky nodded miserably.  
  
“Okay. I’ll find a box…a coffin.” He got up. “Maybe you have a special blanket or something she liked that you want to bury with her?”  
  
Starsky nodded miserably. He put his knees down and reached for a box beside him on the couch. Hutch hadn’t noticed it before. It was the shoebox Starsky’s Adidas had come in. Starsky laid a hand on the lid. “She’s in here. I couldn’t leave her alone, Hutch. I had to come see you right away. But…you were…shopping, I guess.”  
  
“Sorry about that.”  _He needs to talk more._  Hutch sat back down. He slid an arm around Starsky and pulled him closer, into a hug. “She was a good pet, wasn’t she?”  
  
“Mm-hm.” Starsky nodded. “She was a great pet, Hutch.” A couple of fat tears plopped onto the cardboard box. He wiped them away with the side of his hand, and sniffed. Hutch dug in his pocket for a handkerchief.   
  
“Here. Blow.” He held the handkerchief to Starsky’s nose.   
  
Starsky shot him a glance. “’M not a baby. I c’n blow m’ own nose.”   
  
“Then let go of the box, and do.”   
  
Reluctantly, Starsky released the box with one hand, and blew his nose. The other hand he kept firmly clutched to the box.  
  
Hutch watched him a moment. He knew how Starsky felt about crying: avoid whenever possible, never give in to the flow of tears. But he could tell Starsky was pretty close to weeping.  _C’mere, you…_  He shifted around on the couch so he could pull Starsky into his arms, back against his chest.  
  
At first, Starsky’s back stiffened. Hutch rubbed a hand on his chest, and one on his head. “It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.”  
  
Starsky’s breath hitched, and he made an odd little sound—the sound he made when he was crying.   
  
“I’ve got you.” Hutch held Starsky close, chafing his arm, rubbing the back of his head, handing him the handkerchief again.  
  
At last, Starsky’s shaking and oddly constricted sobs slowed, then stopped. He pushed away from Hutch, sniffing a little, and blowing his nose again. “Thanks, Hutch,” he croaked. “I’m glad you’re here.”  
  
“No problem. If…if you don’t mind me asking, why are you wearing that… outfit?”  
  
“Oh, this?” Starsky looked down at the flannel shirt (it was only half buttoned, and unevenly), and his threadbare cutoff jeans. He slapped a hand down on the jeans. “My favorite pants. You probably think they’re ready to trash but I like to wear ‘em at home. Most comfortable pair I’ve got. Louise likes to…I mean she liked to…crawl around on ‘em, too.” His voice choked off. Hutch rubbed his arm. “And I forgot to put on a shirt, and I was gettin’ cold, so I grabbed one of yours when I got over here. It’s…comfortable in a way, too, Hutch, ‘cuz you weren’t here, and your shirts were.”  
  
“Aw, Starsk.” He ran a hand through Starsky’s hair again.  _I’m sorry it had to be my shirt that comforted you, instead of me._  
  
Hutch had a sudden sharp mental image of Starsky sitting on his couch, face filled with glee, while his little pet crawled around on the lap of his disreputable jeans.   
  
Starsky hadn’t talked much about his pet while she was alive—he’d known Hutch wasn’t interested—but when she died, the first thing he did was rush over here, without even stopping to put on a shirt.   
  
Hutch wished he could fix it. He ought to be able to; Starsky had come to him.  
  
“What am I gonna do, Hutch?”  
  
“We’re going to give her a decent burial, and get you another guinea pig.”  
  
“No. No more pets. If this is how it feels when one dies…”  
  
“Starsk,” said Hutch gently. “You can’t stop loving because you might lose what you love.”  
  
Starsky sniffed, and wiped at his nose again. “I know ya can’t, Hutch. But…I just…can’t replace her.”  
  
“Okay.” Hutch rubbed his arms again, and Starsky leaned back against him with a shaky sigh. Starsky closed his eyes and hugged the box tighter.   
  
Then he sat up and opened his eyes. “Got a scissor, Hutch?”  
  
“Yeah. Why?”  
  
“I’ve got to cut off these jeans some more.” He set the box down and padded towards the kitchen. He hadn’t even thrown on his sneakers before driving over, Hutch noticed; he was barefoot, and his sneakers hadn’t been kicked off in front of the couch, either.  
  
“How come?” Hutch followed him, caught up with him and ran a hand along his arm.  
  
“Gonna g-give some of the cloth to Louise. Bury her with s-somethin’ to r-remember me by.” His breathing hitched, and he stopped walking, biting his lip.  
  
“Aw, Starsk.” Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky there in the middle of the kitchen, and rested his chin on Starsky’s shoulder, willing away the pain, wishing he could take it all away, keep Starsky from ever having to hurt again.  _But then he wouldn’t be human. I guess._  
  
He held Starsky close until his breathing evened out again.   
  
They went to find the scissors.  
  
<<>>   
  
  
 _This story is somewhat based on some of my experiences with losing a guinea pig. It can be REALLY hard. And I have buried several with favorite bits of cloth... :-(_  
  
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End file.
